Poles Apart
by JulesAusten82
Summary: Both Margaret's Mother and Father have passed away. Her Aunt is still in Italy and her Cousin in Greece. She is left all alone in Milton. How will Thornton rescue her, and will she inadvertantly rescue him in return?
1. Chapter 1

**POLES APART**

_**A/N: I probably shouldn't even be starting another fic, considering I already have one going, but I just couldn't help myself. This little variation crept into my brain one day and wouldn't leave me alone. I had to put it down on paper – so to speak – and see where the story led me. Sadly it has only given me this one chapter so far, the remainder of the story is still floating around inside my head, but because of my other commitments I'm afraid I must warn you not to expect an update in a hurry. This story is pretty much a filler – it occurs when and if inspiration strikes.**_

_**It is set just after the passing of Mr. Hale, but in this story Margaret's remaining family have not yet returned from the continent and Margaret is left in Milton to make the best of her rather sad situation.**_

_**I know the North & South fandom is rather small but please drop a review and tell me if you feel the story has merit and whether you'd welcome a few more chapters!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

**Chapter 1**

"The poor girl," commented Mr Bell, sadly shaking his head.

"Indeed, to lose both one's parents in such close succession and at such a young age, is very unfair," replied Mr Thornton, his brow heavy with exhaustion and sadness – both his own sadness at the loss of his dear friend Mr Hale, and for Margaret and the pain and anguish she must be suffering. He knew she would not welcome his sympathy or his pity, but she had it all the same.

"I imagine she will go to live with her family in London?" enquired Mr Thornton, with a practiced air of indifference.

"That is just the thing Thornton, her family is still abroad. The Aunt is in Italy or some such place and the cousin is currently residing in Greece with her husband. I have tried contacting them but it will probably be several weeks before they even receive my correspondence and then several weeks more before I get a reply. And what do I do with poor Margaret in the mean time? She has no one else in the world to care for her, save me; and short of marrying the poor girl…"

"NO!" Bellowed Thornton, momentarily losing control of his carefully schooled emotions, as the old man's suggestion stabbed straight though his heart. Somehow knowing Margaret did not wish to marry him was nowhere near as painful as imagining Margaret married to another – that was just incomprehensible, every fiber of his being seemed to scream out in protest!

"Well, exactly my point Thornton! Besides the fact that I'm old enough to be her father; I am set in my bachelor ways. I have neither the need nor the inclination to marry – and especially not to condemn such a lovely creature as Margaret to caring for this old wreck," he said indicating himself, "when she should be out enjoying her life with someone she could love as an equal."

Mr Thornton had to take several deep breaths to compose himself before he dared to reply. He could feel his hands shaking with suppressed rage; rage against these unfair and tragic circumstances and rage against Margaret. If only she had accepted him all those months ago, the question of her welfare and her future would not now be an issue, but as it was…

"Forgive my outburst Mr Bell, I did not mean to insult you, it's just that…"

"Oh, I know Thornton, I know! I may be old but I'm not dead yet, nor am I blind. These old eyes are still sharp enough to see that which is clearly before them," interrupted Mr Bell, his pale face etched with sorrow, but his eyes sparkling with a very knowing look.

Mr Thornton didn't know how to respond. He always knew Bell was no fool, but to think that man could know what he was currently thinking and feeling made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He was in no mood to engage in a battle of wits with this old man. He was no match for Bell. The man was a sphinx; sly and conniving, and could talk riddles around you so that before you even knew what you were about you found yourself saying far more than you ought.

"Where then will she go?" he asked, in an attempt to redirect the conversation back to the problem at hand, (anything to avoid discussing the shame and hurt of Margaret's rejection).

"To be blunt Mr Thornton, that is why I requested this interview. I know you are not as indifferent to her as you would like me to believe. Would you not consider…"

"Mr Bell, my wishes and feelings on the issue are of no importance. I will gladly do all within my power to aid and assist Miss Hale, for her father's sake as well as her own, but I will neither force her into something she does not desire, nor will I demand something of her in return for my assistance.

"In light of this pronouncement, if you feel there is any practical way in which I can assist Miss Hale, then please tell me so and I shall see what may be done, but please do not meddle in things which will not only not aid Miss Hale, but which may in fact hurt her more." His tone was stone cold as he uttered this speech, though his heart ached in its core as the truth of each word sliced through that organ. He did not want Mr Bell's sympathy or his sharp witted comments; he wanted to ensure that the old gentleman knew that he would hear him out on any topic save for the one that he was hinting at.

Mr Bell's eyes were keen and glinted like agate in the dim lamp light of Mr Thornton's office. The mill had closed for the day, and her workers had long since returned to their cold cramped hovels; yet their master still sat in his office, hard at work – his eyes red and burning from staring at his ledgers in the muted light of his desk lamp. Mr Bell took in all of this upon first entering the office; so too did he note that although Thornton must have been sitting at his desk for more than two hours after the mill had closed for the day, his ledgers remained woefully incomplete before him.

He saw too with a quick glance of his feline orbs, the heat that seemed to smolder behind the cool blue eyes of the Mill master every time he mentioned Margaret's name. He knew it would be unwise to push the matter further with Thornton; his mind was made up even if his heart could still be tempted – and with a man like John Thornton, he did not think it would be prudent t to appeal to his heart – he was a businessman, not a philanthropist.

"Well Mr Thornton, if you cannot accommodate me then I must appeal to Mrs Thornton. She is a woman and a mother too. Surely she must see what poor Margaret is suffering? Surely she can offer comfort and companionship? If you would be amenable to allowing Margaret room in your house I shall personally ensure that all her expenses are covered. I always spoke with Richard of Margaret being like a daughter to me, and though I cannot, and have no desire, to replace my dear friend in her affections, I will ensure that she wants for nothing."

Mr Thornton's face grew dark and he frowned in consternation. He was momentarily dumbfounded. He couldn't possibly have Margaret stay under the same roof as him, never mind his mother! Mrs Thornton was not a cold woman but he knew that his mother did not think kindly of Margaret. She was protective of him and could not forgive Margaret for refusing his offer of Marriage, and she would resent the scandal that was still attached to Margaret ever since the events at the station all those weeks ago. But now, given the circumstances, could she put aside her hatred to help this poor orphaned girl? He knew that if he asked it of her she would do it, not for Margaret, but for him.

But could he ask it of her? More importantly, could he put aside his own pain - his own pride - to help Margaret?

"You are perfectly within your rights to offer Miss Hale whatever support, monetary or otherwise, you feel necessary, but if she agrees to stay at Marlborough mills_ I_ shall ensure she wants for nothing. I do not want or need your money, sir."

"Perhaps not, but if you think that Margaret will be satisfied to become a burden on your purse as well as invade your home then perhaps you do not yet know Miss Hale as well as I had imagined," said Bell archly, idly rubbing the rim of his hat as it rested carelessly on his knee.

"I know Miss Hale's sense of righteous indignation will be amply fed by my determination to brook no argument in this matter. She has other causes that will benefit more by your philanthropy than I will. No doubt were you, or I, to point this out to her, she may perhaps look on the scheme with a kinder eye."

"You speak no doubt of the Mill workers which she has befriended?" enquired Bell. "Well I did not intend my money to be used to support the down trodden labourers of Milton."

"Well if you think that she wouldn't be using even a portion of her money for that exact purpose, then perhaps _you_ do not know Miss Hale as well as you may like to think you do Mr Bell."

Bell smiled knowingly and nodded his head in silent acknowledgment of the hit. "May I then put the matter before Margaret for her consideration Mr Thornton?"

"She will not accept."

"Well in that case I shall have to make her understand that there is no other choice."

"If she does not choose it then I would rather not force her hand. There are many reasons for her not to look kindly on the prospect of her relocation to Marlborough mills; I shan't bore you with the details, but rather than add to her misery I would rather attempt to assist her in some other way. After all, you have not yet spoken with her yourself; you may find she has other _friends_ willing to help her." The last words of his speech were uttered in bitter accents as memories of Margaret embracing the stranger on the station platform flooded his mind's eye and jealous bile coursed through his veins, polluting his heart.

"I can assure you Mr Thornton that as per my conversation with Margaret this afternoon, she declares her isolation in this world. She is friendless and alone; she must accept your offer."

"My mother's offer, Mr Bell; I am not in a position to offer her anything."

"On the contrary Mr Thornton you are in a position to offer her everything yet you refuse to even discuss the merits of such a course of action?"

"Mr Bell, you forget yourself! You may be Miss Hale's guardian but you are not mine, and I must therefore request that you respect my wishes for not discussing this matter further. You may tell Miss Hale that she is welcome here for as long as she chooses; that nothing will be asked of her or expected of her in exchange for her accommodation. My sister is just lately married and as such we have more than enough room, and I'm sure my mother would welcome the company."

"And her maid - Dixon? I wouldn't wish to inconvenience Mrs Thornton by throwing a servant into the mix, but she is now the closest thing to family which remains to Margaret; I do not think she would cope well…"

"She may bring anyone or anything that may contribute to her comfort and contentment. I would not deny her her friends."

"Thank you Mr Thornton. You have been most generous. I shall inform Margaret of the arrangements that have been made and shall hopefully find her less resistant than you believe I shall find her."

Mr Bell didn't stay after the agreement had been reached but instead shook hands and took his leave.

Thornton was tired. It had been a trying week and with the prospect of what waited before him; between having to inform his mother of their new house guest and of having to bury his own pain and heartache and try and support Margaret, he imagined that the week that he had just lived through would be but the beginning of many wearisome weeks, and possibly months, still to come.

But whatever it took, he would do it. He had realised this several weeks ago; after his cover-up of the death of that man at the station, he realised that there were no limits to how far he would go to protect her. He would do anything for Margaret.


	2. Chapter 2

**POLES APART**

_**A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for all of the encouragement. I've finally had a bit of spare time in which to continue fleshing out this story and I hope that it will meet with your approval!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

**Chapter 2:**

The dull dusky light streaming in through the lace curtains belied the fact that it was only quarter to four in the afternoon. The weather had begun to change. Residents of Milton began to speculate that snow was imminent. Most walked the streets with their coats and scarves wrapped firmly around their bodies and faces to ward off the icy chill. But then even if it had been a warm summer's day, the light that dappled the threadbare rug on the floor of Mr Hales study would still have been grey and lacklustre; for such it always was in Milton. The smog and smoke of the factory town had permanently blocked out the bright dewy sunshine that shone in other counties. Here the dreary colours combined with the noxious fumes and the squalor of the downtrodden workers to make a cocktail of sadness and despair.

For such a one as Margaret Hale however these depressing circumstances had been but a small hurdle which her calm and sunny disposition was sure to overcome; and so she had. For her mother however, the dusty smoggy environs of Milton were an insurmountable obstacle. She had sadly succumbed to its clawing poisons.

Still Margaret had soldiered on; sad but not defeated.

But Fate had not been kind, for in Its selfish pursuits it had decided to carry Mr Hale away as well. Now, what had once been nothing but a bit of dreary weather, had suddenly become a dense dark weight pushing in on Margaret from all sides; slowing suffocating the last few ounces of joy and hope still left in her small frame.

It was in this melancholy stupor that Margaret now stood; her Black frock representative of her black mood and her indefinite future. Her small hands idly twisted the lacy scrap of fabric that was her handkerchief, around and around, until the tight rope cut into her skin, forming red welts as it slid through her fingers. She didn't seem to notice. She was looking around at all of her father's most prized possessions, trying not to think about how this would be the last time she would see them... smell them... touch them. Having not attended his funeral, this was to be her final farewell.

"All of these books need to be bound up and sent to Mr Thornton at Marlborough Mills Dixon. I know father would have liked him to have them and I'm sure he'll appreciate them."

"Yes Miss." Dixon watched as her mistress took one last loving glance around at the books that were spilling out on the table before her before gently dabbing at the corners of her red raw eyes for the umpteenth time that day. Dixon couldn't believe that her little mistress still had tears to cry after all the sobbing she had heard coming from Miss Hales bedchamber over the past several nights.

Dixon had always disliked Mr Hale. He was never good enough for her late Mistress and in her opinion was the direct cause of that dear Lady's death, (moving them all to the soot blackened streets of Milton indeed!) And now he had gone and left poor Margaret all on her own with not a soul in this world to care for her except this Mr Bell, which Dixon didn't like any more than she had ever liked Mr Hale – Men!

Margaret attempted to help Dixon assemble the books in neat piles but the process was a slow one as each new title that flashed before her watery eyes caused a memory to go shooting like an arrow through her chest. She was sure there could be nothing left of that vital organ any more. Dixon wished that Miss Hale would just leave her to do the packing; it would be much quicker and would spare her so much unnecessary suffering, but Margaret was adamant.

Margaret had spent the day trying to help Dixon pack as many things as possible. She knew she had probably been more of a hindrance than anything else but dear old Dixon had not groused at her or shooed her away. Dixon had promised to remain behind to finish the packing after Margret had left the following morning.

The majority of the furniture was to be sold at Auction. Though each piece had attached to it some beautiful memory of happier times, Margaret knew that she could not keep it. Mr Bell had insisted that Mr and Mrs Thornton wanted Margaret to be comfortable at Marlborough Mills and as such wanted her to bring as many of her belongings as she wished. But Margaret knew that was not possible. She was to be staying as a guest in their home for an indefinite period; she could not bombard them with all of her shabby furniture and what Mrs Thornton was sure to deem worthless trinkets. No; better they get sold so that someone else may have the use of them.

When Mr Bell had originally spoken to her of the Thornton's invitation Margaret had been quite taken aback. After everything that had been said between her and Mr Thornton as well as everything that had _not_ been said, she was sure that he would never want to see her again, let alone offer her room and board in his house. She knew Mrs Thornton would not have made the offer if her son was opposed to it, so she had to believe that Mr Thornton must have forgiven her in some part. Forgiven her her refusal of his offer of marriage, forgiven her the heartless and unfeeling words that she had flung at him that day; but she didn't truly think he had forgiven her for her involvement in the scandal at Outwood station. How could he? He didn't truly understand what had actually occurred at Outwood station. He jumped to conclusions and wouldn't allow her to explain herself. No, he most assuredly hadn't forgiven her for that.

That night Margaret sat in her chamber packing the few items that she would be taking to the mill. She lovingly caressed her father's old Bible; the leather worn soft from the many times that her father had held it firmly grasped in his hands. This was the only book out of the many which Margaret had chosen to keep for herself; she could almost smell her father on its pages. She wrapped it gently in the folds of her mother's old shawl and carefully placed the soft woollen bundle on top of the dresses in her trunk.

She also kept her mother's embroidery ring. It reminded her so vividly of her mother, sitting by the fire working her needle into the fabric; that she couldn't bear to part with it. Even now it still held the last piece of cloth that her mother had been embroidering before she fell ill; the soft delicate fabric adorned with thick patches of fine silken thread woven into the most tantalising and beautiful of scenes. Margaret's needle work was poor to say the least, and as such she feared it would undoubtedly remain incomplete forever. This miserable thought caused a fresh crescendo of tears to cascade down her wan cheeks as this article was also tenderly tucked away in her truck.

After her packing was complete, (a task, which considering the limited articles Margaret could take with her, should have been completed in under an hour but which in reality was only concluded long after midnight); Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed her room for the last time. In truth she didn't see much, her mind had unwittingly wandered back to the interview she had had with Mr Bell only the previous morning.

"It is a most gracious offer Mr Bell, but is there nowhere else I could go?" asked Margaret gently.

"Come come my dear, it is not as bad as that! I grant you Mrs Thornton can seem a bit brusque at times but they are good people Margaret and it is very kind of them to offer to take care of you until such time as your Aunt returns from the continent."

"Yes, I know, it is very kind of them Mr Bell, only...well...you see, Mrs Thornton doesn't really like me very much and Mr Thornton...well, I said something to Mr Thornton which has upset him greatly, and he hasn't spoken to me for weeks. I can't imagine having to live under the same roof as them; I truly couldn't imagine them ever really wanting me to come. I am sure they only offered out of Christian duty," mumbled Margaret, not daring to look into Mr Bells face as she said it lest he observe something there which she had rather he not see.

But Mr Bell was wise enough not to allow all of his thoughts and feelings to be expressed and instead used his cunning to convince Margaret that Mrs Thornton would want nothing more than to care for her in such desperate circumstances and Mr Thornton scarcely less so as he had been such a close friend of Mr Hale's; and as Margaret had pointed out – they were both Christian people who, if they were indeed offended by something Margaret may have said, were sure to have forgiven her by now.

She had by no means been placated by his assurances but she knew that her options were limited; and so it was with a half broken heart and a heavy conscience that Margaret, accepting her fate, arrived at the mill the morning following her near sleepless night of packing. Her welcome was charitable enough. Mrs Thornton greeted her in mild if not warm tones and showed her to her room, leaving her to unpack her belongings and settle in.

When Margaret was finished, (in truth, when she had girded her nerves enough to face the prospect), she came down to the drawing room for morning tea. She was surprised, (and somewhat relieved) to find that Mr Thornton would be joining them; she wasn't particularly looking forward to the awkward conversation that would have been inevitable had she been left alone with Mrs Thornton. Though she knew that she had no right to expect any better treatment from Mr Thornton, her heart was lightened by his warm address and kind inquiries.

"I trust that you have settled in comfortably Miss Hale?" asked Thornton, nervously fingering the handle of his tea cup. Looking at the delicate cup, he couldn't help but remember the first time his hand had brushed against the warm softness of Margaret's fingers when she had handed him just such a cup of tea after having dinner one evening with Mr Hale and his family. He was roused from his memory by Margaret's gentle reply to his previously all but forgotten question.

"Indeed yes, I must thank you sir, for inviting me to stay here. I hope I shall not be an inconvenient or tiresome house guess. I would imagine you must have several more pressing demands on your time than to be worrying about my welfare."

"On the contrary Miss Hale, your father was a good and kind friend to me and I shall do everything in my power to ensure that his daughter is cared for. You have not had an easy time since your arrival in Milton Ms Hale, but I shall do all that I can to ensure your safety and wellbeing while you are here."

"Thank you Mr Thornton," replied Margaret shyly. Though she was slightly saddened that his generosity was all in aid of honouring the memory of her late father she still averted her eyes and tried to hide the blush that had unwittingly flared across her cheeks as a result of the warm way in which he had referred to her welfare. She should have known that Mr Thornton was a plain speaker and in his own house he would not hesitate to speak freely and openly. She was at least gladdened by his warmth, but extra heat was added to her blushes by the unbidden memory of her first interpretation of his character. When she had first arrived in Milton, she had mistook Mr Thornton's open and artless manner for crudeness and a failure to observe the niceties of decorum; she now knew that he was simply an open person who took pleasure in speaking his mind and even at times his heart. She only wished she had been able to know then what she knew now.

The next several days passed in much the same manner. After a rather silent breakfast Hannah would sit down with the housekeeper and go over the household roster or weekly menu's; Mr Thornton, who did not eat breakfast, was long since hard at work in the mill; and Margaret, left to her own devices, would steal away into her bedroom to while away the lonely hours until lunch. On the third morning after her arrival her father's books were delivered for Mr Thornton. He was touched that Margaret would think of giving them to him but promised that they would remain her property for as long as she may live and that should she ever want them back she need only ask.

Since that day she had taken to spending her idle hours holed up in Mr Thornton's study surrounded by her father's old tomes. It was on one such evening, when returning home late from the mill; Mr Thornton had decided he would take a book up to bed with him. Upon entering the gloomy study which was lit by only one small candle, he stumbled across Margaret sitting in the arm chair near his desk, with her small little feet curled underneath her as she unseeingly flipped through the pages of the book in her hands.

"I beg your pardon Miss Hale!" stammered Thornton. "I had not thought you would still be up. I had no wish to interrupt your solitary reverie." With these hasty words he attempted to back out of the room, but was stopped as Margaret stammered wearily in reply.

"No Mr Thornton, it is I who should beg your pardon. I have taken to monopolising your study of late. I'm afraid I do not get much sleep lately but when I have these old books to thumb through somehow the hours seem to pass much more quickly than in the silence and darkness of my room."

"You must rest Margaret. You are tired; I can see it in your eyes. Sad too, I know, but you must continue living if you are ever to overcome it. I know..." he said gently, his eyes worriedly glancing over her limp slight frame hunched forsakenly in the chair.

Looking slightly ashamed of herself and conscious of her self-centredness she gently wiped a stray tear as it raced down her flushed cheek. "Thank you Mr Thornton, it is difficult, as you are aware, but you are right, I cannot let it overpower me. I shall try harder to conquer it."

"You shall tell me if there is anything I may do for your comfort Miss Hale?" he asked, though his tone was more that of a command than an inquiry.

"You have already done so much, Mr Thornton. Indeed, I do not know how I shall ever repay you and your mother for your kindness."

"I assure you that neither one of us did it for repayment," replied Thornton with a now slightly bitter tone to his voice.

Margaret realised too late that Mr Thornton was overly sensitive to any insinuation about his proclivity for business overruling his human compassion, but she had not meant it in that light and hastily struggled to put matters to right. "No sir, you did it out Christian charity, because you are a kind-hearted Gentleman and I hope...a friend."

Thornton seemed to falter at her obvious use of the word gentleman but he could not bring himself to utter the words that were so readily on his lips, and which before had led him to suffer such heart break; instead he bowed his head and wished Margaret a good night before retreating to his bedroom – completely forgetting about the book which he had meant to bring with him.

Margaret awoke in the dark dim hours of the early Milton morning to find that she was still curled up in the arm chair in Mr. Thornton's study. The book she had been reading had since slipped to the floor and lay in a slightly crumpled heap on top of the many other books piled beside the chair. As she bent down in the semi-darkness of the fast approaching dawn to retrieve it, she noticed that she had been covered up with a soft cotton quilt. The fabric was dark in colour but felt soft and warm. She didn't recognize the coverlet as anything she had seen before in the house, and knew that it was by far too fine an article; and indeed to well used, as evidenced by its softness, to be something that had been stored away in a cupboard. Though no one who saw her at that moment would have been able to tell, due to the shadowy predawn dimness within the study, but the heat that flooded her cheeks as she realized that there could only be one person who could have covered her, caused her cheeks to flame in embarrassment and ignited a small flame of hope and joy in her lately so desolate heart.

She gently extricated herself from the quilt and standing, she lifted the fabric up to gently brush against the bloom on her cheek. Her senses were flooded by a musky sweet scent that pervaded the blanket and now that she came to think of it, it was the same sweet scent that always assailed her nostrils upon entering Mr. Thornton's study. After inhaling the folds of the cloth one last time, she tenderly folded the quilt and laid it gingerly over the arm of the chair she had just vacated. She then tidied the mess of books that were scattered on the floor and taking one last swift glance at the empty chair she hastily escaped up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber before any of the servants began their daily chores.


	3. Chapter 3

**POLES APART**

_**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/followed/ favorited this story so far. I'm sorry that I don't get around to PM'ing you all individually but it's wonderful to read your words of encouragement and know that you are all enjoying this little tale. I hope this next installment won't disappoint…**_

**Chapter 3:**

"Miss Hale, forgive me, I didn't know that you were in here; I merely came in search of a book which Fanny had asked to borrow," said Mrs. Thornton innocently as she entered the study one morning, pretending to be surprised by Margaret's presence there.

Margaret was not convinced – she had been living at Marlborough mills for near on a week and had taken to sitting in Mr. Thornton's study nearly every day since her arrival there – Mrs. Thornton; the all seeing all knowing woman that she was, had to know exactly where Margaret was to be found.

"There is nothing to forgive Mrs. Thornton," replied Margaret demurely.

"Indeed, I wonder at you sitting all alone in this study, feeling sorry for yourself. Forgive my interference but having had some experience of loss myself I always found that the best way to overcome my sadness was to remain active and busy. These books obviously hold a great deal of sentiment to you, and as such they are perhaps not the best way to overcome your pain."

Mrs. Thornton was not unfeeling towards her fellow man but she couldn't abide self-pity. A deeply pragmatic woman, she felt that each person had enough strength within them to conquer their own fears and tribulations and that God would not present someone with a problem which they would not be able to cope with if they just looked deep enough within themselves to find the courage. This belief was one of the reasons that she found it so hard to accept her own husbands passing.

"I feel sure you are right Mrs. Thornton," answered Margaret, trying not to let her irritation with Mrs. Thornton show; "but I do not have anything other than these books to occupy my time."

"Then you should take your example from me and take up your needle and thread. Nothing helps pass the time of day more effectively than needlework, and at the end of the day you have not only occupied your time and your thoughts but you have done so In a productive manner and have the finished article to show for your hours of toil."

"I fear my mother had often attempted to improve my needle work skills, but to no avail. There always seemed to be something more exciting to be doing." Margaret's face fell slightly at the memory of her mother scolding her as she had been out visiting the neighbors when she should have been at home for her sewing lessons. "My mother was very skilled with a needle. She embroidered the most beautiful things: table cloths, handkerchiefs…; she was busy embroidering a beautiful piece of silk before her passing, but I fear it shall forever remain incomplete. My talents could never do the cloth justice."

"Will you show me this cloth?" asked Mrs. Thornton, curiously. The image of Mrs. Hale which she had in her mind's eye was not one of a particularly industrious or talented lady but more of one who lay about on a chez-long all day complaining of her aches or that the fire had died out.

"Certainly… if you wish it," replied Margaret. She wasn't sure why Mrs. Thornton had taken a sudden interest in her. She could only assume that her son must have asked her to, which only made her hasten her step in her attempt to retrieve her mother's embroidery ring, lest Mrs. Thornton notice her blushes and question her further.

However; Hannah Thornton, when finally presented with the article, forgot all about her promise to her son to try and make friends with Miss Hale. She was truly impressed by the craftsmanship before her and could not hide her interest or her praise.

"It is indeed beautiful Miss Hale," she commented, running her short fingers across the ridges of thread pulled taught by the embroidery ring it was stretched around. " The colours are so rich and life like and the stitches so fine and intricate; it is a small wonder that your mother was even able to see to make them. I'm sure I should go half blind were I to attempt to emulate her style."

"Thank you. I am perhaps a rather biased judge but I always admired my mother's skill, and her patience; for a work like this one would often take weeks or even months to complete, yet she always seemed so fulfilled by the task that time didn't seem to matter to her, the joy was in the perfect finished article – no matter how long it took to attain."

"It seems such a shame to think that this cloth must remain incomplete. Would you not even attempt to finish it to honour your mother's memory?" asked Mrs. Thornton, gently running the soft fabric through her white hands.

"It is precisely for that sake that I shall make no attempt of the kind," replied Margaret ironically, sadly ogling the cloth in Mrs. Thornton's hands

"But with a bit of practice, and me to guide you, your needlework would undoubtedly improve. Would you not be willing to even try Miss Hale?"

"You would teach me?" hesitantly asked Margaret.

"Fanny never had much enthusiasm for sewing; it requires more focus and dedication than she was willing to spare for it, but should you so desire, Miss Hale, it would please me to help you finish your mothers cloth."

Margaret was skeptical of Mrs. Thornton's motives, but the drought of affection which she had so lately suffered through left her aching to cling to any parental figure willing to give her even a scrap of sympathy or friendship.

"I hope you will not regret your offer Mrs. Thornton as I feel sure that even Fanny must be more accomplished than I, but I should be very grateful for your help. I think that I should enjoy it very much."

**Xxxx**

Work at the mill had been taxing. They were still trying to catch up with all the lost production of the strike, and though the bills seemed to be arriving every day, the payments from the debtors were not. Mr. Thornton had been working himself and his men hard in order to meet the orders and could little afford the time away from the office, but he had tried to make it home everyday to sit down to dinner with his mother and Miss Hale.

He wasn't exactly sure why it was so important for him to be there, as had it just been him and his mother he would undoubtedly have just asked a servant to bring him a plate in his office rather than attend a formal dinner service. Now, however, the lure of Margaret's presence and his curiosity to see her spirits improving drew him back to the house everyday without fail.

He had just stepped through the door one evening when he was greeted by his mother coming into the hall.

"John! What a pleasant surprise! You are to join us again for dinner?" she asked, a slight hint of jealousy creeping into her question.

Mr. Thornton was not ignorant of his mother's feelings towards Margaret as well as her feelings about his previous interest in her, but as he believed the risk of him losing his heart to Miss Hale was now all in the past he tried to behave as if he didn't catch his mothers meaning.

"We do have a guest mother. Would it not appear rude if I did not at least lend my appearance at dinner time, if for nothing more than to at least spare you from each other's company for at least an hour?"

"Well I'm sure Miss Hale would understand if your business prevented you from being present at the dinner table."

"If I didn't know any better I would think you were trying to get rid of me," said Mr. Thornton mockingly as he removed his coat and bent down to give his mother a gentle kiss on her cheek.

Her icy demeanor seemed to melt at her son's touch and she smiled fondly at him as she replied to his mild sally. "I am glad that you will at least be eating properly during the time that Miss Hale is with us. You too often neglect your own health when you are so preoccupied with business."

"See mother, Miss Hale's presence is not all bad," he said as he followed his mother into the dining room. After scanning the otherwise empty room he enquired from his mother as to the whereabouts of Miss Hale. He tried to keep his voice light and casual but though he would later deny it to himself, he felt a physical ache at her absence.

"She is nursing her wounds."

"Wounds? Surely she is not injured?" asked Thornton, his frustration and panic growing with every breath. "Or have you two argued? I asked you to make a concerted effort to be kind to…"

"And I have done all and more than you asked of me my son," interrupted Mrs. Thornton irritably, no longer able to bear witness to her son's seemingly inexplicable affection for this girl. "She stabbed her finger with her needle while I was attempting to teach her a more intricate stitch and she has merely retired to her room in order to bind the wound and remove her apron which had been stained with a few droplets of blood."

"Oh…I beg your pardon mother. You are…teaching her?" he asked contritely.

"I am trying. She is not very proficient but she is at least more eager to learn than Fanny ever was."

"I am glad, Thank you mother. It pleases me to think that you can be her friend; Lord knows she needs one!"

"Well we shall see," was all the reply his mother would make, other than a slight roll of her eyes as she whispered the words.

"I hope you are not lamenting taking me on as your student to your son Mrs. Thornton. Indeed, I did warn you, as if my thumb was not evidence enough of my inadequacy," said Margaret as she entered the room, and held up her now bandaged thumb as proof of her statement.

Mr. Thornton turned to welcome her into the conversation. He saw, with a small stab of pain, that though she was attempting to appear cordial and gay, her face was still gaunt and pale. He glanced at her thumb as well as the slightly stern look on his mothers face and could not help himself from trying to come to Margaret's aid. "You should not be so hard upon yourself Miss Hale. I cannot tell you the countless times I have had to bandage my mother's fingers just so," he said indicating Margaret's thumb, "After she too had punctured them with a needle. She still does upon occasion." He smiled affectionately at his mother while saying this.

"As I have informed Miss Hale, one cannot take up a needle and thread when one's concentration is not entirely on the task at hand. It requires focus, as Miss Hale and I have both learnt to our detriment. The sting of today's wound will hopefully serve as a forceful reminder during tomorrow's lesson," said Mrs. Thornton, who though appearing harsh in her criticism was secretly impressed with the progress that Margaret had already shown in just a few short hours.

"I hope I shall improve with practice."

"My mother is an excellent tutor," replied Thornton soothingly.

Margaret didn't quite know how to respond to Mr. Thornton's gentle and friendly manner. Since she had moved into his house he had been very cordial on the few occasions she had seen him, and at mealtimes he had seemed …preoccupied. He was never rude or cold but she had felt as if veil had been drawn between them. She knew of course what the cause was and she could tell that in order to forget the past he had decided to bury himself in his work. She wished more than ever that she was able to finally tell him the truth about Frederick, but with her brothers fate unknown at this point she just couldn't take the risk.

Mrs. Thornton watched as Mr. Thornton helped Margaret be seated at the dinner table. She watched too how when that young lady's head was turned toward her plate his eyes were riveted to her. He couldn't seem to help himself; they would try to look cool and unaffected while under Margaret's heady gaze but as soon as she looked away they immediately jumped back into their previous position, scrutinizing her every feature, shining with renewed life and vigour, though still shadowed by worry and sadness.

She knew that despite her son's protestations he was still very much in love with Ms Hale. She could say that she failed to understand his infatuation but she was beginning to realise that either way, there was very little that she could do about it. She had many months ago come to the realisation that there was not one in one million women whom she would feel happy welcoming as her daughter-in-law; and with this realization had also come the recognition that if she didn't want to lose her son's love altogether, she would have to keep her opinions of his prospective wife to herself. But though there were many character flaws which Mrs Thornton was prepared to over look in her potential daughter-in-law, the one point on which she was determined to hold firm was that she would not see her son marry a woman who did not love him as much as she did.

Previously she had always believed Margaret and her family to be nothing but fortune hunters, but since the events of the riot and Margaret's subsequent refusal of her son's offer she was forced to rethink her initial judgment. She could quite easily believe that she was proud and haughty but seeing her now under closer inspection she had to admit that she was a lot more level headed and mature than she had expected and more to the point, as evidenced by Margaret's blushes every time her son's name is mentioned or whenever he enters a room, Mrs. Thornton had begun to doubt whether Margaret was as indifferent and uninterested in her son as he himself would believe.

If only she had not behaved so recklessly and caused her reputation to be dragged through the mud, Mrs. Thornton thought that she could almost reconcile herself to the thought of Margaret Hale becoming her daughter-in-law…almost.

"I saw Nicolas Higgins today," commented Margaret, bravely cutting through the awkward silence that had descended on the little party as they noiselessly sipped their soup.

"Not in this house I hope!" declared Mrs. Thornton curtly, her upper lip curling in indignation.

"No," answered Margaret coolly.

Thornton didn't respond, but merely gave his mother an admonishing glare. Though he knew how improper it would appear for one of his hands to be welcomed into his house, he had also grown to like Nicholas Higgins. He knew too that he was a good friend of Margaret's and wished his mother could remember this and be more temperate in her treatment of Miss Hale, most especially at this sad time.

Margaret continued her story but now addressed her next words directly to Mr. Thornton; "I had decided that a little fresh air may do me some good and so set out on a walk after breakfast - I met him as I was crossing the yard. He could not spare me many minutes as he was busy helping Mary unload groceries. When I asked him what he was doing unloading groceries he told me briefly about the canteen you have set up at the mill for the hands. I think it is truly a wonderful idea Mr. Thornton."

"Well, thank you Ms Hale, but I feel I must correct you. You no doubt would like to believe that it was done purely for humanitarian reasons but I'm afraid I am not a philanthropist, as you are no doubt well aware. I am a businessman and it made good business sense to set up the kitchen – that is all. And in any event, the credit for the idea should go to Nicholas Higgins; it was his frustrations with the butcher that set the cogs in motion."

"So you did not do it because it would help the starving workers but because it would benefit your business?" asked Margaret incredulously. She thought that he had changed, could he really still be so cold and unfeeling towards his fellow humans? No, she wouldn't believe it. Her old prejudice had long since died away; she did not fully understand his desire to appear so hard-hearted but she knew he was not as calculating as he would have her believe.

"Certainly; a hungry hand is weak and slow and preoccupied by his grumbling belly, but a hand who has had a warm nourishing meal soon grows strong. He is soon able to do double the work he was previously doing. Not to mention that having full bellies seems to make the men a lot more docile; we hardly have any fighting or disputes anymore."

"I cannot believe it. Surely you must see that the kitchen will also help the families of your workers. Before, they would have had to feed themselves as well as their wives and children out of their wages, but now their pay can go a lot further towards provided for their children."

"I do not doubt your logic Ms Hale, but despite that being an added advantage of the scheme I can assure you it was not the motive. My mill has already increased production by almost twenty three percent and all for a few extra groceries bought every month. That it was I would call a good investment Ms Hale."

"But what of Mary and the Boucher children?"

"What about them?"

"You hired Mary to cook in the kitchen and are helping the Boucher children with their schooling. How is that a good investment? These wretched children have no impact on the increased efficiency of your mill. I have to believe that this was purely an act of goodness and kindness…"

"When I had discussed the idea of the kitchen with Nicolas he had mentioned that his daughter was a good cook, so naturally based on his recommendation, I hired her. As for the children's education, I'm sorry to have to correct you again but it is only one child and I am merely helping him learn his letters at this point, and perhaps later his numbers. He is bright and need not end up in the mill one day like his father, if he chooses not to."

Thornton shifted uneasily in his chair. He always wanted Margaret to think well of him but somehow when she tried to he clumsily kept contradicting her, making her loathe him more than ever he was sure! Why could he not simply admit to caring about the Boucher boy? Admit that he had taken him under his wing, so to speak, as he was reminded so strongly of himself when he was a lad? And even the kitchen; Margaret seemed determined to see the best in his motives behind the kitchen and yet he had to break her idealistic image of him, shattering it into tiny pieces, by declaring that the only consideration that he had was money.

He couldn't decide if his anger was driving him to confirm her accusations of that fateful day after the riot, when she had declared he thought only in terms of buying and selling; or if in reality she was entirely correct in her summation of his character – and he was nothing more than a cold calculating master, bent on greed and profits!

Thornton watched Margaret's face intently during this exchange. He watched how it had paled during his first declaration; and saw now with self-loathing how her blood began to boil anew at his arrogance and conceit. It would seem as though Thornton's plan (if you could call it such), had succeeded. He was sure that all Margaret could think of was that day in her father's study after he had offered her his hand and she had refused him. He knew as he sat lost in his thoughts that she must now think him just as smug and unfeeling as she had thought him that day.

As he sat there at the head of the table feeling the disappointment and hurt, which he imagined to be radiating out of Margaret, slowly strangling his heart, Thornton had to admit that his initial plan to keep her at arm's length would now be oh too easy…she would likely never speak to him again!

In truth, Margaret was angry, but she hadn't believed a word of it. She was angry with Thornton over his continual refusal to admit his humanity,( except it seemed when it came to his feelings for her). She didn't loath him as he imagined, she cared for him as a friend, as one of the few people left in Milton who had known her father; and though her naivety and confusion would not credit it, as she began to understand him better she had also begun to care for him in other ways as well.

Their friendly argument was cut short by Mrs. Thornton. She had interrupted them, declaring that she could not be expected to eat her meal without the hazard of choking if she was made to listen to talk of dead workers and their orphaned offspring at the dinner table. This had caused the topic to be dropped and the rest of the meal to continue in peace, with the conversation vacillating between idle chatter of household chores and how much progress Margaret was making with her embroidery project, though Thornton had once again disappeared behind the veil of self pity and immense sadness which always seemed to cloud the air between himself and Margaret these days.

That night as she sat in the now familiar wing-back chair in Mr. Thornton's study, after everyone else had retired for bed, Margaret was able to give the subject more thought. She realized that despite his protestations of being a business man and not concerned about the welfare of those around him other than how it would affect his bottom line, his claims were somewhat rubbished when she considered all the things he had done to help others.

He may argue that the introduction of the wheel in his mill was to ensure that his workers stayed healthy and could therefore produce more, but Margaret remembered her father discussing the issue with her one day and telling her that the wheel was more expensive to install and run than could ever be recouped through its operation which was why so few masters had had it installed.

She also remembered how he had gone out of his way to protect the poor wretches from Ireland that he had brought over during the strike. They had all been comforted, fed and sheltered and then he had personally seen to it they were all transported back to their homeland once the strike had broken. When they had first arrived in Milton he had befriended her father and found them a house, as well as referring Mr. Hale to other potential students. He had brought her mother fruit while she had been so ill; and now, perhaps the greatest act of kindness he had yet to bestow, (especially considering the circumstances surrounding their uneasy acquaintance), he had taken Margaret into his home to be cared for and looked after for so long as she should wish to remain.

How could she have mistaken his goodness for selfishness, his honesty for crudeness and his declaration of love for self-promotion?

She sat, hunched wretchedly in Mr. Thornton's chair, gentle sobs wracking her small frame as she shed hot tears of shame into her small cupped hands as they shielded her face. If fate was indeed punishing her, then perhaps she was beginning to understand why.


	4. Chapter 4

**POLES APART**

**Chapter 4:**

"Why my dear Miss Hale, how pale you look! I hope you are not ill. Indeed, I would not be surprised if you were, for it's a small wonder we are not all ill having to endure this cold and smoky place! Why my dear Watson and I spent several weeks in the glorious sun-shine of southern France, and I do declare that I have never enjoyed anything more! Why you should go there Miss Hale, should you get the opportunity. It is sure to do you the world of good."

Margaret didn't know how to reply to Fanny Watson's speech, the whole of which was spoken in one breath and in Fanny's usual self-indulgent style, with little or no consideration to what she was saying or to whom she was saying it.

She had arrived at Marlborough mills one grim morning, with the purpose of having morning tea with her Mama and Margaret in order to cheer them up; or at least that was her excuse. Had she been forced to hazard a guess, Margaret would be more likely to venture that Fanny had invited herself for tea simply for the pleasure of crowing over her about her wonderful husband, their blissful marriage, her richly furnished home and their idyllic honeymoon abroad. But Margaret was impervious to Fanny's thinly veiled boasting. Fanny had always been shallow and materialistic but ultimately Margaret didn't see any harm in her. She had been spoilt and cosseted all her life. Her mother and brother had had to bear the entire burden and she had reaped all the reward; the result was a superficial young lady of weak mind and indifferent temperament. This, thought Margaret, was hardly her fault.

In fact, after having sat for nearly three quarters of an hour listening to her vacuous diatribe about all the failings of Milton and other inane commonplaces, Margaret quietly thought to herself, that had Fanny been her younger sister, she would probably have tried to protect her from the outside world as well. She was vain, self-centered and spoilt, but still just a child at heart. No, Margaret bore her no ill will – in fact she rather pitied Fanny her cloistered existence.

A fact that would have indeed shocked and astounded Mrs. Fanny Watson had she known of it; for in her opinion she was undoubtedly the envy of most young woman of her acquaintance; and as for pity – well, a more wretched, ill-fated creature than Margaret Hale never existed.

While Fanny spoke, both Margaret and Mrs. Thornton sat in silence sipping their tea. Occasionally Margret would attempt to contribute to the conversation, but as she soon learnt that Fanny was more than capable of carrying on the conversation on her own; and as Mrs. Thornton, evidently well used to Fanny's way of speaking, had chosen to sit quietly to one side sipping her tea and occasionally shaking her head (whether in disagreement to what Fanny had said or whether in disapproval, Margaret couldn't discern), she too eventually decided to remain silent.

She was in danger of drifting away from the conversation entirely; her sleepless nights beginning to take their toll, when the door had suddenly opened and in walked Mr. Thornton. Margaret was slightly surprised as it was not his custom to take morning tea with the ladies but she welcomed the addition to their monotonous party. Their precarious friendship was teetering even more these days since their conversation of a few nights previous. He was sure that she must loathe him more than ever and as such generally tried to avoid imposing his presence or his conversation on her. She on the other hand was eager to mend the breech.

She wanted more than anything to make him see his own self worth. But Margaret believed that his renewed coldness towards her was still due to the looming shadow that forever palled over them in the guise of lies and misunderstandings surrounding that night at Outwood station. She was also confused by her need to seek his forgiveness. Margaret had certainly never wanted Mr. Thornton to hate her but lately the prospect of losing his friendship seemed to obsess her every waking moment. At least, she was not entirely sure it was just his friendship she was scared to lose. Though he had once offered her his heart and hand, she had been more than willing to continue on without them; now however, she wandered if she was as willing to relinquish them as she had once been.

"Forgive me Fanny, Williams informed me that you had come to call, but one of the looms needed my attention, hence my tardiness," said Mr. Thornton on entering the little parlour. He had walked with a strong and purposeful gait over to Fanny and bent down to kiss her lightly on her cheek.

"Oh! Do not speak to me of that dirty mill John, for I'm sure I couldn't give two straws! I'm only surprised that you can still continue there. Why, my dear Watson was just saying only yesterday evening, how he feels that he has outgrown the cotton industry and is in fact thinking about going in with Mr. Branson and having a go at speculating." This was said with the air of someone incredibly grand and important conferring a great honour on a subordinate, but sadly for Fanny, it was received with little enthusiasm and no credit.

"I hadn't believed Watson to be so foolish, but I suppose there's no fool like an old fool," replied Thornton nonchalantly as he stood before his sister, trying desperately not to look in the direction of Margaret.

"You can mock all you want to John, but I'll have the last laugh when my Watson makes a fortune speculating and you are still covered in the dirt and dust of the factory floor!" huffed Fanny, clearly upset over her brothers flippant retort.

"It is not just Watson John; I have heard that there are many prominent business men these days that have taken to speculating." Mrs. Thornton had not said more than two words since Fanny's arrival but now she spoke up, (an attempt to restore peace as it seemed to Margaret), as she poured out a cup of tea for her son.

"I have no doubt that there are many fools ripe for the plucking in this town mother, but I can assure you that I am not one of them." As he spoke he sat down on a wing back chair and with a cool and laid-back air crossed his one leg over the other and took a sip of his tea.

"It is not foolish John!" wailed Fanny, her face turning beetroot red with indignation. "Watson says that it's as good as a sure thing and you're almost guaranteed to double your investment," she doggedly continued, determined to win the debate and prove her husband to be in the right of it.

"Then I wish him luck with it Fanny, but I can assure you that no matter what your 'dear Watson' may say, speculating is nothing more than a gamble and I for one am not prepared to gamble my family's, or my workers families, livelihoods on a mere game of chance!"

Margaret was slightly shocked by this declaration. He had always pretended not to care about his workers – was he finally going to admit that he did care?

It seemed as if he too was a bit conscious of what he had just said as he looked fleetingly at Margaret after he had said it and her surprised countenance caused him to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

Margaret's change of opinion of Mr. Thornton and his then seemingly callous and dictatorial manners had been a slow gradual metamorphosis, it allowed her to fully appreciate the high-handed way in which she had misjudged and dismissed him. She was finally beginning to see and to appreciate the true worth of the great Master. A worth, which she realized with a small smile, he didn't even fully appreciate or recognize in himself. Perhaps one day she would have the opportunity of apologizing and of enlightening him; of making him realize that he is more than just a master to some.

He couldn't know what thoughts were currently swimming though her mind, and had he been able to open a window to her thoughts he would not have credited what he saw there. Margaret Hale thought him crude, uncultured and ungentlemanly and was unlikely to ever change her opinion of him. He was nothing like the gentleman at Outwood station.

Thornton's arrival had seemed to signal Fanny's departure. The two would never see eye to eye. Fanny was bound to lose any argument, and in Thornton's mind, be dismissed as the little sister with no knowledge of what she spoke.

Margaret couldn't help but wonder at how different the bond between this brother and sister was when compared to the bond between Frederick and her. Indeed, a wider comparison would be difficult to find. The sight of this brother and sister's distant and abrasive relationship was a painful reminder to Margaret of the letter now lying in ashes in the grate in her chamber upstairs.

It had arrived just yesterday morning after being redirected from Crampton, and as she had taken it off the tray held aloft by the outstretched hand of a servant, she immediately saw that it was postmarked Spain. She had ripped the seal off as soon as she had retired to safety of her room, but if she was hoping to find some words of comfort there she was mistaken.

Frederick, at the time ignorant of their Fathers passing, had written simply to inform her that his interview with Henry Lennox had not gone as well as they had both hoped. Though Henry was willing to do all that lay in his power to clear Frederick's name he had not been very hopeful of a favourable outcome. After spending several weeks hidden in London so as to avoid detection but also to provide Henry with as much information as possible, he had finally set off for Cadiz, and now that he was safely back at home he wrote simply to tell her of his return and that he would forever be her affectionate and loving brother.

She had written to him the day before she had left Crampton to tell him about their father, she had realised with a pang that he would most likely have received her missive by now and like her was all alone in his grief.

After reading the letter through twice Margaret decided with a heavy heart, that it must go the same way as all of Frederick's previous correspondence – on the fire. The risk of anyone finding it and providing the details of her brother's whereabouts to the authorities was too great; and though desperate for some sort of familial familiarity to comfort her she knew she had no other choice but to toss the pages into the flames and watch as they, like her hopes of comfort, curled into black ribbons of ash.

If these longing thoughts of Frederick hadn't caused Margaret's chest to ache anew she may have found the whole spectacle between Mr. Thornton and his sister somewhat laughable, for after several more rounds of bickering to and fro between the siblings, Fanny; with a loud swishing of her stiff and ample skirts, had bid her adieu's and childishly stormed from the room.

Mrs. Thornton had given her first born an admonishing glance before following Fanny down the stairs.

"Forgive my sister, Miss Hale; she is young and foolish," he commented scornfully as soon as his mother was out of the room.

"I imagine that you feel that youth and foolhardiness are one in the same?" asked Margaret teasingly, trying to coax a smile out of herself as much as from Mr. Thornton.

"Now I must ask you to forgive _me_ Miss Hale, I did not wish to imply that you are foolish simply because you are young."

"Thank you Mr. Thornton, but I cannot accept your apology. Though my youthfulness would like to think that it was infallible, looking back at my life I realise now that you are more correct than I would like to admit, as I couldn't be more ashamed of some of my more youthful naivety and arrogance."

Thornton didn't reply, but merely looked at her quizzically. After some few minutes of mild confusion on both sides, Mrs. Thornton reentered the room. Mr. Thornton hastily tried to fill the uncomfortable silence which their previous exchange had left in its wake so as to avoid arousing the suspicions and jealousies of his mother.

"I believe, from Williams, that your maid arrived today," stated Thornton, as his mother carefully resumed her seat. (His attempt at redirection, which he thought had been so successful, had failed its purpose miserably; Mrs. Thornton was more convinced than ever that her observations and private assertions of a few nights past were entirely correct.)

"Yes. Dixon was determined to oversee the auction yesterday and pack up the last few remaining items that were to be donated before she was able to join me here."

"I hope she is settling in. If there is anything she may desire she need only ask."

"Thank you Mr. Thornton. You and your mother have been incredibly kind to us and we are most grateful." Both parties blushed at these sincere and heartfelt thanks and stared back down at their cups in an attempt to hide their embarrassment, but they were not quick enough to escape Mrs. Thornton's eagle eye. That formidable lady however chose to remain silent and simply observe.

XXX

Later that evening after supper, Margaret retired early to bed. No fire had been lit in the study as Mr. Thornton had given instructions to the housekeeper that he would be working late at the mill and that they need only leave a candle burning for him by the door once all the servants retired for bed; so Margaret's refuge would have to be abandoned this night.

The frigid northern winter had arrived with a vengeance. The snow had started to fall shortly after Fanny's departure that morning and had continued to fall in thick drifts throughout the afternoon. Margaret had been taking a walk each day hoping that by returning to her old habits her life would begin to feel normal again. Most days she didn't venture further than the mill gates though, somehow the idea of facing the real world just yet was too much to bear. However, the secluded world with in the gates seemed safe and familiar. This day, however; her walk would have to be put off. The icy wind seemed to whip around the yard, wailing and crying as it stirred the snow into white crested demons that beat at the factory door and hammered on the windows of the house.

Even Mr. Thornton had remained cloistered in his office. A servant, on instruction from Mrs. Thornton, had taken a tray of food to the mill. It was at the precise moment that Margaret was ascending the stairs that the woebegone servant re-entered the house, shrouded in a chilling cloak of white ice. Margaret couldn't help but pity the wretched man as he stood there shivering, clutching the very same tray he had been sent to deliver just moments before.

"Was Mr. Thornton not in his office?" enquired Margaret innocently, eyeing the tray of untouched food.

"No Miss, he was there, only he had no wish to be disturbed," replied the frozen servant bashfully.

"Did you not tell him that his mother had sent the tray?"

"I did miss, but he still told me to go."

Margaret nodded at the poor man and let him make his way back down to the kitchens where he would hopefully be able to defrost in front of the fire. She in turn continued up the stairs toward her room.

As was her usual habit these days, she had once again been ruminating about Mr. Thornton when her train of thought was momentarily disrupted as she opened the door to her room and discovered Dixon waiting for her.

"Dixon?" she gasped self-consciously. "You startled me! What is it?"

"I thought you may need my help in undressing miss."

"Dixon, I have been managing on my own for many years, I do not need your assistance."

"Miss Margaret, you are a gentleman's daughter! You cannot continue to behave as you were want to back in Crampton!" whispered Dixon in somewhat scandalized accents.

"And just how did I behave in Crampton that was so disgraceful?" enquired Margaret, a light of fury flashing in her eyes.

"With all due respect Miss Margaret, you were want to carry on like a servant – ironing curtains, dusting furniture and the like; but here you must behave like the lady you are. Your dear mother would never forgive me if I let you ruin your reputation by allowing you to behave like a hoyden. As such, I think it only fitting that I assist you to dress and undress, like a proper ladies maid would."

"I don't believe that my mother would feel that by dressing myself I was doing anything improper; and certainly not hoydenish. Thank you Dixon, but I will manage." Margaret had not wished to argue with Dixon, but the dear woman's affection for Mrs. Hale often caused her to over-step the line of what was acceptable behavior from a servant. Margaret's mother had known Dixon for so long that she treated her more like a friend, perhaps even like a motherly figure on some occasions, and the faithful old retainer had been honoured by the condescension and more than willing to take on whatever role Mrs. Hale required of her.

"Well I'm sure I only ever wished to help Miss Margaret, I intended no offence," replied Dixon rather huffily as she stood straight up squaring her shoulders, but making no attempt to leave the room.

"I know you didn't Dixon, and nor did I," replied Margaret in slightly more temperate tones. "I assure you that should I change my mind or should I require assistance in any way, I shall ring for you directly." Margaret realized that she had ruffled Mrs. Dixon's feathers and hoped that this little speech would spare her Dixon's sulky and sullen visage for the next week.

Dixon seemed to soften as she nodded and smiled at her little mistress, though there was an odd martial glint in that redoubtable lady's eye. Margaret knew that look oh too well. Dixon may have declared a cessation of hostilities for the present but she would no doubt continue the attack another day in the hopes of future success.

"Well in that case I shall leave you Miss. I have taken the liberty of rearranging your closet and of unpacking the last few items from your trunk."

Margaret had to grit her teeth to avoid saying something waspish but she was incredibly irritated that Dixon had taken it upon herself to rearrange her clothing; as if she could do it better than Margaret could. However; not wanting to cause a fresh argument, and with the aim of hastening Dixon's departure from the room, she simply thanked her for her trouble.

"And I have stored your mothers shawl and embroidery ring in the chest of drawers there near the window," she stated with a slight catch in her throat, pointing at the large mahogany chest on the other side of the room.

"Thank you Dixon. Where did you put father's Bible?"

"On the nightstand next to your pillow Miss; and I placed his gloves in the drawer of the night stand."

"Gloves?" asked Margaret somewhat confused.

"You don't need to feel embarrassed in front of me Miss Margaret. We all bare our grief differently, and if your fathers old leather gloves give you comfort then you should keep them near. Good night Miss Margaret." As she said this she walked out of the little room and closed the heavy door behind her.

Margaret was rather perplexed as she was sure she hadn't kept her father's gloves. All of his clothes were to be donated to the poor. How had a pair of his gloves come to land in her trunk?

With a swift stride she hastily walked over to the night stand and pulled on the little ivory tasseled handle to open the drawer. After seeing what was inside, Margaret coloured up to the roots of her hair and consciously looked over her shoulder to be sure that Dixon had not reentered the room. Determining herself to be alone she gently reached into the little drawer and carefully lifted out the soft worn gloves.

She had realized immediately upon laying eyes on them that these gloves did not belong to her father; no – these gloves were the property of Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills. These were the selfsame gloves that in his impassioned anger and bitter disappointment he had forgotten behind in her father's study the day she had rejected his proposal.

She had always wanted to return them but after that fateful day, he avoided their house for some time, and most especially avoided her company. Soon after that her mother's illness had progressed and all thoughts of the gloves, which had been safely stored away in her closet, had been forgotten. Even had she remembered their existence, after the events of Outwood and all of their repercussions, it would have been nigh on impossible to return them then.

But now? Now, after everything that had passed between the two of them? Mr. Thornton had offered her shelter in his own home. He had chosen to look past her scandalous behavior and her bitter rejection and to aid her in her hour of need. Surely she could summon the courage to return them now? Perhaps now, with Frederick safely back in Spain, she could finally explain the misunderstanding that had occurred at the station.

She sat for some time in the gathering gloom, perched on the edge of her bed, slowly turning the gloves over and over in her hands; the flickering light from the fire throwing spectral shadows against the walls and furniture.

Outside the light had completely faded, and the thickly falling snow seemed to muffle all sound; and still she sat lost in her own thoughts. Slowly, as she sat staring at her lap upon which rested the hardy articles, she lifted one up and tugging at the open end gently eased her small fingers into the opening.

The glove seemed to consume her whole hand. Her delicate fingers where lost in the broad fingers of the black glove and yet she could feel the silken softness of the worn material as it brushed against her palm. She gradually curled her fist within the gauntlet feeling the leather as it tightened around her skin. The pressure felt warm and pleasant, and her cheeks began to heat with the image of Mr. Thornton's hand straining inside this very glove. She imagined how his fingers must have flexed and curled within it, the numerous hands which he must have shaken while wearing it. She even wondered what he done when he realized he had misplaced them. Had he realized that he had left them in Crampton, on the desk in her father's study, or had he simply thought that he had lost them and bought a new pair to replace the old?

Of late she had also begun to wonder if he had done the same with his heart. Had he too left this behind in the shabby little room that Mr. Hale had adopted as his study? Or had he forgotten where he may have misplaced it and set about carving a new one of solid stone? Though he looked at her but rarely these days she almost felt at times when he did, that she saw a savage blaze burning behind those cool blue eyes. It unnerved her so on these occasions that she couldn't help the sudden flush that flamed on her cheeks and hastily tried to turn her head away from his smoldering gaze. But was this blaze fanned by his unswerving love for her or by the pain, embarrassment and hatred that her refusal had caused?

In truth she could no longer remember why she had behaved so coldly towards him. He may not be a philanthropist, but he was not an ogre. He was intelligent, successful, attractive and despite his protestations – kind. What Characteristics was she looking for in her prospective husband that could not be amply met by Mr. Thornton? Should he be a duke? Or perhaps only a prince would do? Could she really have been so cruel towards him simply to punish him for his impudence during that first disastrous meeting? Or was she so afraid of change and what that change would bring that she was determined to never let her heart go for fear of what her life could become? If nothing else, she at least owed him the truth and he could then decide whether or not he could ever forgive her.

With these acrid thoughts she hastily stood up. She sought through the drawers in the near darkness until she came across her mother's knitted shawl, which she haphazardly threw around her shoulders; and snatching the gloves off the bed where they had fallen, she hastened out the door and down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**POLES APART**

_**A/N: Hi there everyone! My apologies for the long drought. I received such a wonderful response to my last posting that I feel really guilty for keeping you all hanging for so long. I hope this chapter will make up for it. **_

_**As for the questions / points raised by a few of you to my last chapter, I haven't had a chance to answer you all personally but they were very good points and I will definitely be working my explanations into upcoming chapters, so you'll just have to 'stay tuned'.**_

_**Thanks for all the support, reviews and follows! You guys are the best! Please keep the reviews coming.**_

_**Enjoy! **_

**Chapter 5:**

John Thornton had been seated at his desk for several hours, pouring over the Mill's ledgers in the dim lamp light, until his eyes were raw. No matter how much he stared at the figures he could not find any way around the looming crevasse that lay in the path of Marlborough mills. He had attempted to get further credit from the bank but even that had now been exhausted. Investors were hard to come by as the influx of cotton from abroad had flooded the market, and the harsh winter did nothing to encourage sales.

There was always speculation.

His mother was cautious but even she had been won round by Fanny's incessant chanting of the guaranteed success of her 'dear Watson's' scheme. Hannah knew the risks - better than anyone; yet even she was prepared to risk it all.

Why couldn't he? He knew that even if the mill was doomed he could at least afford to pay the workers for the next few months, giving them chance to find other employment. If he speculated and lost he would be ruined, and the mill would be forced to close immediately and those workers within her walls would be out on the street with not even a penny to show for it.

No, he couldn't allow that to happen. He had a responsibility to his employees. As their master they trusted him to make the right decisions for the mill and therefore for their future in the mill. He was not omnipotent and could therefore not control matters such as supply and demand, or industrial strikes, but he could control his money and how he spent it. He would not do to his workers what was once done to him. He at least had the power to spare them that.

He rubbed wearily at his scratchy eyes for the umpteenth time that night, trying to keep the beast – exhaustion, at bay. He was just preparing to look at the ledgers one last time to be absolutely sure that he hadn't overlooked anything when he heard a rapping at his office door. He realized now that the mill had become eerily silent since the shift had ended and the snow outside drowned out all other noises; wrapping him in a cocoon of silence. The knock at the door sounded sharp and harsh as it reverberated in the stillness and yet who ever made it had obviously been purposefully gentle in their action so as not to cause alarm.

He knew it must be his mother, come to search him out and make him retire for the night. She often waited up for him, but in this biting cold he would have thought even she would have succumbed to the warmth of her bed.

"Enter!" he bellowed.

No one could have been more astounded than he when the door opened to admit Miss Hale instead of Hannah Thornton!

"Miss Hale!?" he spluttered, as he hastily attempted to rise from his chair. In his shock and surprise he failed to register that his cravat was lying tossed in a heap on the side of his desk and that his hair was standing all on end due to the many times he had run his fingers through it in his frustration.

"It is freezing outside! Why are you not in bed?" he declared.

As he said this he suddenly realized that his own hands where numb with cold, his fire having died down to mere embers. In his absorption with his task he hadn't bothered to add another log. This he quickly did in an attempt to drive the chill from the air so that Margaret wouldn't catch her death in the icy office. He noticed that other than her slight dress, she wore only a thin woolen shawl draped precariously across her shoulders, which he could not imagine offered much in the way of warmth; and her beautiful brown hair, which was still piled high atop her head was dusted in a glittery sprinkling of snowflakes.

"As you are aware, I do not get much sleep these days, but I shall welcome the warmth of the fire for I am rather cold. I never thought the distance between the house and the mill so very far before, but tonight, trudging through the snow and the darkness, it felt interminable," she remarked as she walked towards the hearth with her hands extended to catch the warmth that was flickering into life as Thornton stirred the coals. "Thank you," she said as he pushed a chair towards her, seating her directly in front of the grate.

"You should not be here Miss Hale, and not just because it is cold," he admonished, feeling all of the impropriety of the situation, but hoping that she would remain all the same.

"Everyone is asleep; no one knows I am here."

"_I_ know," was his only reply, as he cast his eyes back towards the fire.

"Yes," she said, a heady rush of courage, (or foolishness), driving her forward; "but you think so ill of me already, I can hardly sink lower in your estimation." She looked fleetingly into his eyes as she said this, and thought she caught a glimpse of the blaze she had seen there before.

Margaret, conscience stricken, hastily looked back at the fire; but Thornton, who had looked up at her during her brazen speech, now continued to observe her. Her every movement enthralled him. She attempted to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, which being slightly damp from the now melting snow, was stuck to her cheek. As she pushed the hair behind her ear with the soft pad of her finger he felt his whole body shudder with an unknown intensity.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in his agitation and rested his arm against the mantle above the fireplace, but he could not tear his eyes away from her bewitching form.

The conversation had stalled; he was too spellbound to even notice the passing of time and she, now that she was here in his office, was incredibly aware of how awkward it would be to say what she had originally set out to say. In addition to the awkwardness she was feeling she was also feeling incredibly self conscious. She was bitterly cold but her palms were sweaty and she thought her heart was beating so loud that it must be echoing around the office. It certainly beat faster every time she glanced up to find Thornton still staring at her in such an overtly lascivious manner.

She had noted upon entering the small office, the disheveled appearance of its only occupant. His hair was ruffled and the stubble on his chin and cheeks made his face appear almost dirty in the dim light cast by the lamp on his desk. Most shocking to her had been when she had noticed that he had removed his cravat and his collar was unbuttoned to reveal the taught muscles of his throat beneath the soft white cotton. For some inexplicable reason to Margaret, this view – like no other, had caused her pulse to at first stop all together and after several long seconds begin racing along at such an alarming rate she felt she may even swoon. It was this view, and the herculean effort it took for her not to reach her hand out to stroke the dark shadow of his exposed neck, that caused the sudden surge of heat now coursing through her veins.

She had been very grateful when he had offered her a chair in front of the fire, but now the heat that seemed to be radiating out of her made the need for the fire somewhat superfluous. Margaret truly couldn't understand her body's strange reaction; after all, she had been alone with Mr. Thornton on several occasions and had never experienced this level of discomfiture or anxiety, and yet despite these seemingly negative responses, she had no desire what-so-ever to leave the dim little room.

After several deep and steadying breaths, and an inward resolve to not look at Mr. Thornton's neck anymore, lest she truly did succumb to a fainting fit, she eventually managed to garner enough courage to finally speak.

"I know you would have me believe that you think only of profits and business as regards your employees, but I do not believe you. There was a time when I truly thought you had entirely divorced yourself from feelings of morality and responsibility pertaining to the welfare of your hands, but I was prejudiced against you due to my own irrational arrogance and I did not judge you fairly; for that I am truly sorry Mr. Thornton."

She had tried to force her eyes to maintain eye contact, (whilst simultaneously trying to school her traitorous heart beat) and maintain a practiced air of dignity while she spoke, so that he would know she was in earnest; but as soon as she finished her sentence she immediately looked back at the fire, hoping that the ruby glow from the now fiery blaze would camouflage the bloom of red that washed over her cheeks.

"You never accused me of anything which I did not admit to freely," he replied, rather confused by her apology and her inexplicable embarrassment, but also silently rapturous that she appeared so determined to think well of him.

"You have always been very adamant in your attempts to make others believe that your sole care and responsibility is towards your balance sheet and your investors, but you can no longer deceive _me_."

"You mistake me Miss Hale; I have never, nor do I now, have any wish to deceive you. I have only ever been truthful and honest in my own appraisal. I understand that sometimes what is beneficial to the mill and her investors will also be of benefit to her workers; and though admittedly this is a happy coincidence I can assure you it was certainly not my aim."

"The wheel that you had installed, how was that of any benefit to your investors?" she asked; his calm passive denial of her assertions evaporating her awkwardness. Her rapid pulse was now only the result of her firm resolve, and steeling herself for the inevitable argument she turned herself in the chair so that she faced him head on – determined to make him admit his humility and recognize that caring for his fellow man was a strength and not the weakness he seemed to believe it to be.

"As I have explained before, the profit is not immediate but it allows…"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, her nervous energy and her annoyance forcing her to stand up and face him eye to eye,(or as close as possible as he was at least a good foot taller than she was); "it keeps your workers healthier, allowing them to work for you for longer. But my father once told me that the other masters didn't agree with you. They believed that the cost far outweighed any potential profit, which would be minimal and would probably take years to realize - if ever."

Thornton didn't argue back. His mouth curled in a wry smile as he watched this beautiful woman defend him and his actions from himself. He noted too how her thin shawl, which she had draped haphazardly across her shoulders, had slipped down to rest in the crook of her arms as she had sprung up from the chair. She was now mere inches from him and he could clearly see the tiny drops of water that had formed on her dark brown lashes as the snowflakes that had settled there had melted with the heat of the fire.

Or perhaps they had melted with the heat that seemed to writhe like a wild beast in the narrow space between their two bodies as they stood opposite each other, as if facing off for a duel.

He recalled the one previous occasion they had been so close – the day she had thrown her arms about his neck to save him from the rioters. That day, the fear he had felt for her safety had deadened all other responses, and his numbed senses thought only of a way to protect her; now, clouded by exhaustion, fire and lust, he thought only of a way to possess her. In his delirium, he advanced a step closer to her until their bodies were almost touching, and when he spoke it was in a husky whisper.

"Next you will tell me how my canteen must have been done purely to feed the hungry, as it costs more to run than it actually saves, and the result of the workers full bellies is that they become lethargic and work slower. Or perhaps you'll say that employing Nicholas Higgins was done simply to help him feed the orphaned children of a man I hardly knew, rather than because I believed him to be a good hard worker who had a lot to offer my mill. And you will argue your point so savagely and yet so effectively that the result will be that you shall make me realize just how much money I could save by abandoning all these humanitarian schemes; - and when I do abandon them maybe then I shall finally convince you that if you were to cut open my heart you would find the words 'good business sense' etched across it over and over again, ad infinitum."

Was he teasing her? She couldn't think properly…

His words were absorbed by the vacuum between them, in which all time and space seemed to have disappeared. He watched, as one bewitched, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the soft red pout of her lips as she struggled to catch her breath.

She in turn was mesmerized by his intoxicating voice and the raw masculinity of his jaw muscles as they flexed and strained with each syllable.

The pause was long and heavy as she tried to regain her thought processes so that when she did finally reply her voice would not betray her.

"Well then in closing let me just say this: whatever your aim and whatever the result, you are a good master. Nay," she hastened to correct herself, "You are a good man. You are more than just the master of Marlborough mills; I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner – the foolishness of youth perhaps…" she said, smiling up at him, remembering his admonishment of his sister that morning.

She stared into his eyes, no longer shying away from the raging fire that burned there. She examined his tired visage; his mussed black hair and the dark shadow that covered his chin. She now gave herself full rein to scrutinize every aspect of his countenance. In her study she noticed how the dusky shadow on his face spread down his muscular throat and further down towards his chest where it was met by a mass of thick black curls which were just visible in the v-shape of his open shirt collar. Her desire to reach her hand out towards him and bury her thin white fingers in this thick dark mass was almost overpowering. She could feel her heart continue to race along, swept up in the blaze, but she couldn't look away.

Thornton felt the breath catch in his throat. She was so close to him…the heat was unbearable…the temptation seductive, like a drug; pushing him forward…daring him on.

She looked at him so earnestly, her pale face pleading with him; but somewhere, deep in the recesses' of his memory, there came the small whimper of an almost forgotten about hurt; a pain which had been so all encompassing, so deep and fierce, the memory alone was enough to drive the strength from his limbs. He remembered that he had misunderstood Margaret Hale once before to his detriment; he would not do so again – he could not endure it!

Tearing his eyes away from her soft face and turning his back to her, he finally spoke in a voice of strained calm.

"You are over tired Miss Hale, may I suggest that you get some much needed rest. We can talk of this in the morning." His fingers clenched in a tight fist, the knuckles of which he agitatedly and repeated rubbed against his closed lips in a vain attempt to compose himself.

"In the morning you will have remembered all of the reasons you have to mistrust and hate me, I would rather talk now," she replied almost breathlessly, stepping closer towards him.

He spun back around to face her, his eyes flashing back to her face. "Do you not think that I have cause to mistrust and hate you? Are you at last prepared to offer up a defense for your behavior?" he answered scathingly as the old wounds scorched and stung as if she had just carved them anew.

"Please Mr. Thornton;" she pleaded. "That night at the station, you did not see what you thought you saw. You thought …" but he cut her off before she could continue the explanation she had planned out so carefully in her head.

"Save your breath Miss Hale!" he spat. He moved away from the fire (away from her), back around the other side of his large desk, hoping the cold night air on that side of his office would slake the fire in his veins. "What you do is of no concern to me. I ask only that while you are a guest of my mother's you behave with the strictest decorum and not cause my mother to suffer any humiliation of your causing."

Her reference to the station had jarred him out of his stupor, and the awakening was no less rude than it was heart-wrenching.

"Please, Mr. Thornton, I know what you and your mother must think of me, but will you not even let me explain?" she begged, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears. He had already walked back around his desk in the direction of the door, in an obvious attempt to conclude their discourse.

"I gave you an opportunity to explain yourself several weeks ago, but you did not feel that I was worthy of an explanation; now your excuses are of little value - I know what I saw. I bid you good night madam." He strode purposefully toward the door and opening it he motioned her dismissal.

Margaret had always been a strong willed woman but with all she so lately had to bear her spirits were worn low and her strength and will extinguished. She could hardly credit that a few moments before she had been swept along on some euphoric and intensely intimate tide, and yet now she was being coldly ejected from his presence, such as a dog may be chased from a room when it had tracked mud all over the carpet. Her heart crumbled and she raced past Thornton in a blur of angry tears - out into the desolate yard.

He forced himself not to look back at her as she ran out into the night, her slight frame engulfed in the howling blizzard.

The thick snow was almost blinding but she could just make out the soft warm glow of the candle that had been left in the window near the door for Mr. Thornton. She wrapped her shawl tight about her shoulders and though slipping slightly on the snow covered cobbles she hurriedly made her way towards the house.

Once inside she hurried up the stairs, stumbling in the dark; her tears making it even more difficult to see where she was going. Finally, she made it to the sanctuary of her room, and after gently closing the door she collapsed on her bed, silent tears racing down her frozen cheeks.

She lay huddled on top of the covers for nearly an hour; her body wracked by sobs and shivering with the cloying cold that had driven the heat of Mr. Thornton's office and of Mr. Thornton's presence from her frail bones. Her thin slippers had become soaked through with the icy melted snow and her toes were numb; her shawl had slipped from her shoulders as she had collapsed on the bed and now lay in a useless heap on the floor; and her beautiful rich dark locks, which were damp and falling out of their pins, lay splayed across the coverlet of the bed where her head was buried between the large pillows.

She had no idea what had compelled her to seek out Mr. Thornton this night. The force was strong and yet alien to her. It was unrelenting as it spurred her on, and the answering responses that were elicited by her own body in reaction to its fervor were heady and intoxicating. The resulting emptiness left in its wake was all consuming. She had experienced loss on many levels since arriving in Milton, but the deep cavernous ache she felt at the loss of Mr. Thornton's presence and the subsequent loss of his respect and love, was unlike anything she had heretofore felt. It engulfed her in undulating waves of pain, loneliness; and she realized now when it was too late, with a savagely broken heart that ached with unfulfilled need and all-encompassing guilt at now knowing what she had caused him to suffer several months previously.

And so she lay, crumpled and broken, until exhaustion won out and she eventually succumbed to sleep. Her head resting on the forgotten gloves that she had still held in her hands after she had run out of the mill masters office into the cold dark night.


End file.
